And So, All Came to an End
by distantattraction
Summary: It's 2014, and the world's already ended. All that's left is for Dean and Cas to live their last day. They've got a job to do, no matter the cost. What's a life worth these days, anyway?
1. Up Against a Wave

There was a way out of this. There was a way around it-around the plans that heaven had for them, around the archangels, around whatever it was God had in store for them. There was another way, and he would find it if it killed him.

It took years for Dean to realize that it already had.

They were small things at first. Demons attacking with a speed and ferocity he hadn't seen since the night Jake Talley opened the Gate. Then it was demons wiping out entire towns overnight. And then the Croatoan virus hit. Dean would have loved to be fighting for something as simple as a city now. It's funny how the end of the world can change your perception of what constitutes a big deal.

He'd grown up thinking he was invincible. First it was that his father would never let any harm come to him. Then it was that he was strong enough not to let real danger touch him. Then it was that he'd already gone through the worst thing that could happen; he'd held his brother's lifeless body in his arms and brought him back. Then he went through decades of torture in Hell, and if that didn't break him-not completely-if that hadn't done it, nothing could.

But that was only true if Sam was okay.

He'd lost his brother before, but this? This was something he couldn't come back from. He'd beaten distance for Sam, beaten addiction with him, even beaten death to have his brother back at his side. But letting Lucifer in had been Sam's decision, and that was a bond not even Dean could break.

But he could break that body. It wouldn't be easy, not with Michael refusing him, but he would find a way. The Colt still existed, even though he had no idea where it was. He could track it down. And he could track down Lucifer, the wolf hidden in his brother's skin, and he would take them both down.

It would be the end for all of them, really. Cas might not be the angel he had been, but he was involved enough in this that he would need to see it through to the end. And Risa-she would be there by his side where Sam once stood, the right-hand man he'd thought he'd lost. As for Dean himself, well. He'd faced death countless times before. Sometimes he beat it, others he didn't. It didn't matter which this was as long as he got the job done.

He was dead already. The man he used to be was long gone, worn down by the constant loss and years of hardships even he hadn't imagined, challenges that hit him harder than anything had before. He'd thought losing his family was as bad as losing the world; now that he knew what it felt like not to have either, Dean knew how wrong he had been. This life he had now-it wasn't worth saving. The only thing he had now was hope for whoever was left, hope that they could gain back the things he had given up on years ago.

He was a dead man walking, still talking, still planning, but not really alive anymore. He was driven forward by a single goal he would never admit he doubted but which he knew might not be possible. This wasn't the first plan he had hatched on borrowed time, but he knew it would be the last. All or nothing, now or never.

It took five years to find the Colt. Five years of searching, five years of almost giving up, five years of crying desperately for help from the empty heavens, five years of knowing that everything had gone wrong in a way he should have been able to stop. A way he _had_ been able to stop, if he had only said that one word they all asked for.

Looking back now, Dean couldn't even remember why he'd held out. He hadn't wanted to lose himself, he supposed. Hadn't wanted Sam to lose him, even though they hadn't spoken in weeks that turned into months that turned into years. He probably hadn't wanted to lose Sam; Michael would have been too busy with his own brother to worry about Dean's.

But he'd lost Sam anyway. And then he lost Bobby. And then he lost everything else.

He'd thought letting go of the Impala would be harder than it was, but he hardly felt a thing. It was just one more vestige of his old life to say goodbye to, along with his father's old leather jacket, the one that had taken him through fight after fight before getting shredded protecting his flesh from a Croat that got too close.

The first time Cas tried drugs, he told Dean that now he understood why humans took them. He felt like his old self for the first time in months. Then he understood why humans couldn't stop. Even once the feeling of heaven's power stopped coming to him, Cas kept swallowing pills. The world hurt less under their effects. It was a weak, pitiful thing to hold onto, but he had to. He didn't tell Dean that that was when he was sure he was a mortal.

Watching Cas fall was hard on Dean. One more friend he couldn't save, one more man he owed his life to, one more man whose life he'd ruined with his stubbornness. But that was the fate of the angels in this world: They either left, or they fell.

Dean didn't know which fate he wanted Michael to have had.

When Cas told him that his powers were gone, that was when Dean knew for sure that it was over, that he'd missed his chance. He gave it one last shot anyway, but the only response his shouts got was the screaming of nearby Croats coming in for the hunt. He took them out with cold precision before heading back to the others. At the very least, secrets were easier to keep these days. No one even bothered asking where he'd been.

These days, all they asked him was what they were going to do about food, how long he thought they'd have to hold out, whether or not he had any leads on the Colt. For a long time, he didn't have the answers they wanted.

But now he had the Colt in his hands and a location to take it to. His finger circled the building marked on the map while the others got ready-he'd had his things packed for weeks-and thought about how long he'd waited for this. How long he'd searched. What he'd given up to bring this whole mess to its conclusion.

A part of him knew that the person he used to be would have been horrified to see him send Cas and Risa off to be a distraction while he faced Lucifer, but the person he used to be hadn't had the world ripped out of his hands. Maybe Dean would have felt some guilt if he had just been lying to them, sending them off to their deaths without any idea of what was coming.

But they knew. They all knew. And they would all do whatever it took to stop Lucifer. It didn't matter who walked away as long as the Devil wasn't one of them.

The crack of gunfire sounded through the cool air as Dean walked through the gates, stepping into the courtyard where Lucifer waited for him. "Welcome, Dean," he said, and Dean closed his eyes and tried not to remember that this was the first time he had heard his brother's voice in five years. He opened his eyes again and raised the Colt, its weight still familiar in his hand.

This was it. This was the big plan, the final gambit, the last trick he had up his sleeve-and he could not do it. He could not look his brother in the eye _but it's not him, that's not him in that body anymore, those aren't his eyes_ knowing Sam was staring down the barrel of a gun _it's not Sammy anymore_ and pull the trigger. They stood facing each other, the Devil in that stupid white suit Sam would have hated, Dean with the Colt still aimed at his brother's face.

There was no fear in Lucifer's eyes. Not even a modicum of concern. He knew just as well as Dean did-better-that he couldn't do it. And so they watched together as Dean's arm lowered, as the Colt slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a dull thud.

Five years of calculating down the drain. Five years of tarnished hopes and dozens of lives. Cas and Risa had given up their lives for this plan. And now, Dean knew, he had too.

He stared straight into Lucifer's eyes, looked death in the face for the last time. Dean might not have been able to finish it himself, but this fight ended here. He had nothing left, no more aces in the hole, no more contingencies, _nothing_. They both knew that.

Still neither moved, so Dean spat out the words-"Just _do it _already"-and Christ, that was the most vulnerable he'd sounded in years.

Before he knew what was happening, he had his back on the ground and a foot at his throat, and his head turned almost against his will, looking up at Lucifer, trying to find one last trace of Sam in there before it all went dark.

But there was nothing.

Nothing but black.


	2. Like the Heft of Cathedral Tunes

When you go in for a suicide mission, you're supposed to die. You plan to go out in a blaze of glory-not that there was any grandeur left in this world, but he could pretend-and you burn all of your bridges behind you because there's no chance of coming back.

You're not supposed to _survive._

So what the hell was Cas doing standing here, surrounded by dead Croatoans, still breathing? He wasn't unscathed, of course, but he wasn't dead. He wasn't even infected.

When you walk into a room knowing you're going to die, it makes it difficult to know how to walk back out. He could wash the blood and gunpowder off of his hands, bandage the scratches, and keep going if he wanted to. He just wasn't sure if he did.

The halls were silent now. He used to find silence so comforting, back when all they had to face was the occasional demon or belligerent angel. These days, silence just meant fear. He said his goodbyes to Risa before he left, grabbing what was left of her ammunition but leaving the knife in her hand. She'd want that, even in Heaven.

Was there still a Heaven?

Did it matter?

It felt strange to be walking past the bodies he and Risa had left in their wake. He couldn't place the feeling at first, but it came to him as he went. The drugs may have given him an echo of his old power, but this, _this_ was the closest he'd felt to angelic in a long time. The creations of Hell lay slain and broken underfoot, and he walked tall. For a second, he even thought he heard the rustle of his wings behind him.

Wishful thinking, of course. It was just the wind through the leaves.

He saw the body from across the courtyard and knew it had to be Dean. His pace quickened slightly as Cas walked over to him, but he didn't run. Whatever it was that happened here had already come to its close.

He went for the Colt first, pulling the cylinder to the side to see what it held. Five rounds, just as it had when they'd left. He made to drop it back where it had fallen, but after a moment's thought, he tucked it into his belt and turned his attention to Dean. He couldn't help but think that this was probably the most peaceful Dean had looked in years. His frown even chased him through sleep.

Cas stooped down, placing two fingers on Dean's neck to check for a pulse. It used to be that he would have just _known_ if he was alive, but a lot had changed since those days.

Though the flesh was still warm, no life beat beneath his fingertips. The passion that had coursed through Dean's veins for so long had ceased.

Time stopped.

Cas had no idea how long he stayed there, on his knees next to Dean's body. He knelt the way he knew people used to pray, but there was no one left to hear those words, so he stayed silent.

It really was all over now.

He didn't stay to watch Chuck's face change from shocked to grieving, didn't stay to help him struggle with how he'd have to break the news to the rest of the camp. Cas headed back to his cabin-blissfully empty; there were things that mindless sex could help you work through, but this was not one of them-and sat silent on the floor, eyes closed, memories washing over him in a wave.

_The table was upturned, lying sideways on the floor, the maps and blueprints normally arranged carefully on its surface scattered across the cabin. Dean stood at the center of the chaos, pouring glass after glass of whiskey. It had been a long time since Cas last saw him drink like this. He walked forward, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder, but he shrugged the touch away. Cas stepped back, but he didn't leave. This wasn't the first time Dean had failed to get the information he sought, but that was probably at the heart of the problem. He didn't know how many more setbacks Dean could take._

_"We've got news from Detroit," Chuck said, looking down at his clipboard. There were only a few words written on the top page; Cas thought he just wanted to avoid meeting their eyes._

_"What happened?" Dean asked._

_"Well, the city's gone. Wiped out."_

_"Another piece of good news, then," Dean said, just the slightest hint of bitterness in his voice._

_"There's more." Chuck didn't continue until Dean looked at him. He recognized that tone. "Sam was there."_

_"And?"_

_"We lost him. I'm sorry."_

_Dean licked his lips, a hand running through his hair as he looked around the room for anything that could take the sting out of the truth. His hands trembling, he reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink. "Did he go down fighting?" he asked, raising the glass._

_"Dean, he didn't die there. He...he said yes."_

_Dean froze with the glass at his lips. Chuck jumped as he slammed it down onto the table, still untouched, and left the room, slamming the door behind him._

_"I don't really know what I expected," Chuck said, putting the hand that didn't hold the clipboard in his pocket. "Call me when he comes back. We're going to need a plan, and fast."_

_Cas nodded, but he wasn't looking at Chuck. He was staring at the door Dean had walked through, not even knowing for sure that he would be coming back._

_Dean had always driven too fast for comfort, but Cas had never seen him drive like this before. The Impala certainly had her charms, but now that Dean sat behind the wheel of a sturdy Jeep with almost certainly no chance of running into another vehicle on the road, he drove without any kind of fear. Cas didn't think his foot ever touched the brake._

_But when Bobby calls for help, you go._

_There were no sounds of gunfire when they approached, and for a moment, Cas thought they'd beaten the military here. ("Military" they were still called, as if they were anything more than mindless killing machines armed with assault rifles. They cleared the streets of Croats, sure, but they also took down anyone and anything that wasn't one of them. Something they had in common with their prey. They'd had their eyes on Dean's allies for months.)_

_Now that Cas was human, it was easier to lie to himself. It was simple to choose not to see the tire treads in the mud in front of the house, as characteristic as they were. It was night, it was dark, they could be anything. Anything at all._

_The door with the prints of standard-issue boots stamped onto it in dirt, that was harder to explain away. The broken lock, even more so. But he kept doing it, and so did Dean, judging from the way he yelled Bobby's name as he stepped through the doorway, gun raised. As if there was still a chance of seeing Bobby alive._

_When Cas walked in, Dean was alone, standing over Bobby's body. Cas didn't say anything about the blood dripping from the knuckles of Dean's right hand, but there was a hole in the wall he suspected hadn't been there a minute before._

_He watched as Dean picked Bobby's body up in a fireman's lift and headed back toward the car. Dean's men looked questioningly at him as he walked past, so he gave them an order. "Take what we need. Everything. We're not coming back here."_

_He faced demon after demon after demon, and still Dean was able to put a smile on his face when he needed to, when he needed to convince his family that he was still the same man he used to be. But Dean was battered and bruised in ways he didn't know how to recover from, and Cas didn't know how to help._

_Castiel looked into Dean's eyes for the first time, seeing this righteous man in need of salvation, this desperate man in need of hope, and knew that here, there was goodness._

These days Cas looks into Dean's eyes and sees nothing. And now he can't even do that.

He had time enough for one last taste of the old heaven's high, he thought. That sensation of strength, of energy, of walking painless through the camp for a while; it was nice. Lately, it was all he had.

The first time, it had taken two pills to bring on a high. Now he takes six in the morning and more throughout the day. Cas emptied the bottle into his hand, capsules falling to the floor in his carelessness, and tipped his head back. He swallowed as many pills as he could in one go and threw in a few more just to be sure. "That ought to do it," he said softly to the empty room.

When you hit the end, you burn your bridges behind you because there's nothing left to come back to.

He closes his eyes, and the lights go out.


End file.
